Pure Bliss
by DivineMissP
Summary: Jack responds to a late night telephone call... Hurt/comfort, friendship, romance, and a little smut (and the teensy-weensiest blink-and-you'll-miss-it bit of sleuthing) ** Please note that this story contains violence which includes implied sexual assault. Please do not read the story if you feel that it will cause you distress **
1. Chapter 1

Jack ran his fingers through his already dishevelled hair as the shrill ring of the telephone pierced his thoughts. Where the hell was Foster? The young man always seemed to be conveniently absent when calls came through at – he glanced at his wristwatch – 11:27? Where had the time gone?

NOT hearing any hurried footsteps (what a surprise), he grimaced and reached for the handset.

"City South–"

"Jack…" her voice sounded far away, and a little strange, as she cut him off mid-greeting, "I… I need you to come and pick me up…"

He exhaled slowly, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

What was she up to this time? The last he had heard – communicated in a round-about way through Collins' (unasked-for) explanation of his plans for tonight with Miss Williams – was that the Honourable Miss Fisher's intentions had been to attend a dinner for the betterment of some charity whose name and purpose he could not now recall…

He had learned long ago that, where Phryne was concerned, questions rarely resulted in answers, so he asked the only one that seemed pertinent. "Where are you?"

"… Malvern Road… I'll be on Malvern Road…"

He rolled his eyes. "It's a long road, Phryne, you might need to be a little more specific…"

"Uh…" Her voice became muffled, and he waited as she spoke to someone in the background. He thought he heard her ask 'Am I still in Toorak?', and then she was suddenly back on the line "Toorak… I'm in Toorak… I… Sorry…" A muffled voice seemed to enlighten her, and the words came out in a rush, "Williams Road… Williams Road… apparently there's a hotel on the corner... but I won't be there, not near the hotel, I'll be one street further back… towards the city…"

"Right… I'll be there are soon as I can…" He was about to say more, but instead looked at the handset in bewilderment as he realised that she had hung up on him.

Resigned to another night in which his pile of unfinished paperwork would not be diminished further, he rose and reached for his coat and hat. As an afterthought he also retrieved his pistol, just as Foster reappeared at his post. "Constable, I'm taking a car and heading out… Not sure when, or if, I'll be back in tonight… Any trouble and Grover's your man tonight." At a "Yes, Sir" that was muffled by what appeared to be cake (at this hour of the night?) Jack strode out before any questions could be asked for which he had no answers.

He knew Williams Road, and the hotel to which she had been referring, so at least he knew where he was headed; but as he slowed as instructed, with the hotel in sight, he saw nothing but the empty road ahead, and darkened shopfronts reflecting his headlights beside him. He groaned impatiently, and pulled the car in to the kerb. Nothing. Where on earth was she? And what was she playing at?

With the car still running, he opened his door and stepped out to look around; movement caught his peripheral vision, and suddenly her silhouette was there, on the southern side of the road. He waved an acknowledgement of her presence, before resuming his seat and swinging the car around in a precise arc to the opposite kerb.

She remained in the shadows until he had come around to open the passenger door, but when she stepped awkwardly beside him, he knew immediately that something was seriously wrong; a realisation that was confirmed seconds later by the headlights of a passing car.

"Phryne? My God… What–"

The words stuck in his mouth as a strangled sob escaped her, and she reached a desperate hand in his direction; a hand that appeared, in the ghoulish half-light, to be smeared with blood. From where, he could not be sure; the tips of her fingers, certainly, but probably also from her swollen, split lip, and the dried trickle down her left cheek.

Whatever emotion she had been valiantly fighting until now was suddenly unleashed by his proximity. Without hesitation he stepped up to her, engulfing her in his open arms, only to have her cry out in pain as they closed around her small frame.

In horror he tried to pull back from her, but she clung to him as sobs wracked her, and he could not help but move to encircle her, more gently, once more. She didn't appear to have the ability to talk, so he just held her and spoke soothing words into her hair, as he desperately wondered how she had come to be in such a state.

Eventually, seeing two men walking through the shadows in their direction, he encouraged her carefully into the car, and started slowly down the road. "I'll take you home…"

"No!" She astonished him with her vehement rejection of his offer. "I can't go home… I don't want them to see me like this…"

He was loathe to take her to the cold and impersonal setting of the station, despite the fact that something criminal had clearly happened to her; she was upset in a way that he had never seen her before, and someone needed to at least ascertain the extent of her injuries. His suggestion of Mac had her shaking her head and gulping down another sob.

His mind worked furiously as he drove aimlessly down the road. If he had still had a home of his own, he would gladly have opened it to her, but he didn't; since it had been sold in his divorce proceedings he had been living in a boarding house, and although his landlady seemed kindly enough, she had a strict policy of 'no female company', and he wasn't in the mood for explanations.

As he reached St Kilda Road a thought materialised, and with conviction he headed for the city. Phryne was quiet now, her face turned away from his against the door pillar, and he reached out and gave her right arm a comforting squeeze. She acknowledged it with a slight curl of the fingers of her left hand across the back of his, but she remained silent as they drove through the darkness and over the Yarra, and only lifted her head as he parked the car.

He had pulled up on Spring Street, a short distance from The Hotel Windsor; light and patrons spilled from its facade, and, for the time being, he did not want to draw attention. "Wait here. I won't be long… I'm going to lock the car… If anyone comes near you, just pretend you're asleep. Here…" he fumbled his hat off the seat and placed it gently onto her head, ensuring that her face was now entirely shaded from what little light filtered into the car.

She startled him when she spoke, suddenly, "Mr Wentworth… the Manager, that's his name… If he's not in tonight talk to Peter, the Concierge… Here…" she opened her purse and, with shaky hands, produced a wad of notes equivalent to two months of Jack's wages, and one of her personal calling cards.

To his surprise, it WAS Mr Wentworth that he found, occupying a position that gave him a broad view of the lobby (and perhaps the comings and goings of some certain gentlemen who were celebrating a political win). His eyes narrowed as Jack revealed his identification, and he opened his mouth to immediately protest his presence there, but Jack cut him off; he hadn't the time to explain why he WASN'T here. "Mr Wentworth, I am looking only for your assistance." The Manager's eyes narrowed further. "I have one of your clients in my car…" he waved vaguely in the direction of the street, "and… that person… is in need of your accommodations… and your absolute discretion."

Thankfully, her card was not needed; the Manager prided himself on the hotel's reputation for discreet service, and it was not necessary for Jack to reveal the identity of his passenger, only to confirm that there would not be any future issue in settling the bill.

Having been apprised that the situation was a delicate one, and that anonymity was preferred for the time being, Mr Wentworth directed Jack to bring his car around to park near one of the rear service entrances, which he did after the requested ten minute interval.

Jack was impressed. When they met at the rear door the Manager handed him a key. "I've made a suite available on the fourth floor… You won't encounter anyone on your way in," he gave Jack a sympathetic smile, "but I'm afraid you're going to have to take the stairs…" Final directions given, and a time limit of a further five minutes before his staff would start appearing again, Mr Wentworth made himself scarce, with the Inspector's heartfelt thanks.

Jack considered for a moment. He had looked up the service stairwell as the Manager spoke and seen the three twists per floor; twelve in total to take them four floors up. He huffed out what might have been a laugh if any of this had been funny, and went to retrieve his charge.

She climbed stiffly from the car, with a pained squeak as she straightened. His hat was still on her head, and he took off his coat and draped it around the fur on shoulders, before leading her inside. They hadn't the time to beat about the bush, so, before she could protest, he bent and swept her into his arms, and started up the stairs.

Phryne was not exactly a heavily built woman, but Jack was not a labourer, and at some stage between the eighth and ninth turn he wondered hazily whether he might pass out, before finding his second wind and making it to the suite door, albeit with burning limbs and lungs (and a suit that would definitely not pass muster for another wear).

He toed open the door, which had been left slightly ajar, and they entered to find the lights blazing, a hastily lit fire burning, and a steaming coffee service waiting beside a crystal decanter of pale yellow liquid. Jack hummed his approval; the hotel's reputation was no exaggeration.

He set Phryne gently down, taking his coat and hat and hanging them, and directing her to the welcoming comfort of a leather sofa before the fire. She lowered herself gingerly into the plump cushions, before drawing her knees up and to the side, and tilting her head back, eyes closed.

He left her for a moment, taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves; he was feeling a little warm after his exertion, and, unlike most people, Phryne certainly wouldn't mind him taking such a liberty in her presence. He ventured into the bathroom, and washed his hands and face with the cool water; he would have liked to have at least given her a cloth to clean up with, but at this stage he was still wondering whether the police photographer might be required.

He poured each of them a coffee, hers with a decent measure from the decanter – now confirmed as brandy. Once it was cradled in her hands he hovered over her indecisively.

He tried to assess her dispassionately, as he would have a complainant at his station, but he couldn't; this was the woman who infuriated him, challenged him, and made him laugh (if only usually on the inside). The woman who now daily occupied his thoughts, and made him crazy, and whom he adored with everything in him.

In the bright light of the room her condition was all too apparent. She was dirty and dishevelled, the sparkling brooch in her hair hanging at an odd angle, the usually immaculate black strands wild about it. In addition to the cuts at her mouth and cheek, a black eye was forming on the same side. There was little colour left of her lipstick, and her dark eye makeup was smudged and had left runnels where tears had fallen down her cheeks.

The fingers that held her cup were red, two of her fingernails torn and caked with dried blood. Her fur coat was dirty, and the front of her dress that peeked out from beneath it was damaged; several of the many lengths of tiny beads, that had formed a scalloped hem of sorts, now hung forlornly down her legs. Her shoes were scuffed so badly that he doubted they could be repaired, and her stockings were torn, the skin beneath grazed.

A suspicion was forming in his mind that sickened him; but he had to hear it from her, and he made a silent plea, to whoever was listening, that his fears were unfounded. Taking a seat beside her, he reached for one of her hands, and she pressed two of his fingers in her small palm, the ghost of a grateful smile quirking her bloodied lip; but she would not meet his eyes. He gave her a moment more, before he ventured the question in a quiet, low voice.

"Phryne… What happened?"

She did not answer, but shook her head, her eyes closing.

"Please… Tell me what happened…"

Another shake of her head.

"If you were doing something… outside of the law… at the time… it doesn't matter. It's not important. You can tell me…"

She shook her head again, but this time in a slightly different way; a denial that she was doing anything she shouldn't have.

He tried another tack. "WHO did this to you?"

At that tears threatened again, and she squeezed her eyes shut, and turned her head away. "I can't tell you…"

"Of course you can…"

A headshake.

"Phryne, you can tell me. Tell me who did this to you."

Headshake.

"Please… Please tell me who did this…"

Her lip trembled, and she bit down on it, wincing at the resulting pain. His thumb stroked a slow circle on the back of her hand as he waited.

"Telling you won't make any difference…"

He was incredulous. "Phryne, I will do whatever–"

"You don't understand..."

"Then HELP me to understand. TELL me what happened."

She drew a deep, shuddering breath, and he modified his tone as he realised that he would not get an answer from her by force. "Phryne… Whatever has happened, whoever has hurt you, you can tell me…"

For the first time she turned to look at him fully. Behind her huge, watery eyes he saw her trust in him warring with fear, anger, and shame. "If I tell you… it can't go any further…"

His protestation was cut short. "Promise me, Jack… that it won't go any further…"

He closed his eyes for a moment, and rubbed at his temples. He had to know.

As she watched him he rose from the chair and placed their cups back on the tray. He put his hands on his hips and let out a long, slow breath as he tilted his head back and stared unseeingly at the ceiling.

A crime had obviously been perpetrated against her; could he break a promise to her later? He was a man of his word… She constantly acted against HIS wishes, but had she ever actually PROMISED him something and then broken that promise? He had to know what had happened. Right in this moment he could make this pact with her; he would deal with the consequences later.

He returned to his place beside her, and took her battered hands, so small in his. He nodded decisively at her. "It won't go any further."

Her eyes searched his for a moment, then she returned his nod, and began. 

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

_Previously: Jack responds to a telephone call from Phryne, in the middle of the night, and finds her in a terrible state. As she didn't want to go home, he has brought her to the Hotel Windsor, and she has just agreed to tell him what happened to her, on condition that it stays between them._

xoxox

Five weeks prior, a man had arrived in the company of a friend who had business dealings to attend to in Melbourne. Like Phryne, he was an 'Honourable', but only because he was a younger son; his father was an Earl, and in social terms, as far above Phryne's father as Phryne was now above Dot. His family tree was as full of nobles as a hive was of bees, and Melbourne society had welcomed him with open arms, and no small measure of excitement.

Phryne had privately wondered why on earth a man like him had ever deigned to come to Australia at all, but the word was that, although his companion was not of the same standing as he, they had been firm friends since boyhood, and had travelled together many times over the years.

The man was at least a decade older than Phryne, handsome, charming and intelligent, had some serious political aspirations… and was unmarried. His first wife had died from a sudden illness only six months after they had wed, and although there were whispers of a broken engagement in the early 20's, no other serious attachment could be confirmed in the years since.

He and Phryne had been introduced four weeks ago at a ball. He had appeared to be everything that everyone had said he was, but she had found herself utterly, strangely, uninterested… Perhaps it was simply that she had not been in the mood for a man with a moustache?

Jack's lips twitched, in spite of the gravity of their situation, and he was rewarded with a slight quirk at the corner of Phryne's mouth, and the first hint of merriment in her eyes since he had collected her from Malvern Road. He squeezed her hand gently, and she went on.

They had met again only two days later, and she had received more than one nudge from 'kindly' people suggesting that it was not too late for her to relinquish her spinster ways, and that she could not possibly hope to do any better if she did. Of course, she had no intention of any such thing, and as he had revealed later that evening, neither did he.

Left alone for a few moments, he had leaned slightly down toward her, whilst still keeping his gaze firmly on the crowd, and stated, in a voice that only she might hear, that he believed that she had 'known' an acquaintance of his in London; said acquaintance had suggested that she might be open to… a more private meeting.

What he had said did not shock her, but the fact that she had only briefly met the man to which he referred, and nothing more, had kindled her sense of outrage. She had refuted the claim, and declined this man's suggested meeting as politely as she could under the circumstances. They had then, thankfully, been interrupted, and nothing more had been said that night, or on a subsequent occasion when they had crossed paths.

Tonight…

Tonight she had accompanied Aunt Prudence to a surprisingly fabulous dinner in aid of a cause that was particularly close to that lady's heart. The event itself had been organised and hosted by the youngest daughter of one of Mrs Stanley's circle, and to Phryne's delight, and Aunt P's vague disapproval, it had actually proved rather fun. During the course of the evening, she and 'the Honourable' had had a civil conversation, and at no stage had she detected anything untoward.

When her aunt had indicated that she was returning home, Phryne had declined the offer of a lift, and had stayed to make merry a little longer – it was only early, at least as far as she was concerned. When the crowd had thinned a little further she had decided to make her way to the home of an acquaintance who operated a rather open house – no doubt there would be drinking and dancing and fun to be had well into the small hours. It was less than a mile away, and, buoyed by the pleasure of her night so far, the champagne, and a beautiful, crisp night, she had decided to walk, in spite of her heels.

She had covered half of the distance when the rumble of a motor had slowed as it approached her from behind, and she had heard her name. The car had pulled up beside her; Ah-hah, The-Honourable-&-Co. He had stepped out of the car and enquired, rather jovially, at what on earth she was doing, and when she had explained, had offered to walk with her.

She had declined; she didn't need an escort, and she really didn't want him tagging along on her night. He had retorted that it would be dishonourable of him to leave a lady to walk alone, at night, and that he would walk her as far as the door; his friend's car would return for him shortly. Then, without further ado, he had sent his friend and their driver onwards with a few sharp raps on the coachwork.

She disliked what he had done, but his presence had not concerned her. As they walked, the conversation had been pleasant enough, and she had not felt the slightest fear for her safety. If she had, she might have moved her pistol from her bag to her coat pocket in the intermittent patches of utter darkness; but she didn't. When it came, it was so utterly unexpected that at first she had not realised what was happening.

As they had passed an inky black alleyway she had suddenly found her arm violently twisted, her body propelled forward until it had made contact with the wall, temporarily knocking the breath out of her. Earlier he had commented on her bag; now, what some enterprising person had seen as a clever measure against purse-snatching had become her nightmare. To her front, or if she'd had more warning, she might have easily have escaped it, but the thick, sparkling bracelet around her wrist now trapped her hand, and the short chain linking it to the bag had been pulled tight around the other wrist; she was, in effect, handcuffed.

Jack suddenly became aware of his own heart pounding as the pitch of her voice rose, and it wavered. She was fighting tears, and he could not imagine how this strong, independent woman must have felt in that moment, helpless, knowing full well what was intended for her.

She had regained enough use of her lungs to move as he was attempting to hitch up her dress, and she had kicked backwards, catching him several vicious heel strikes to his lower legs. His reaction had been to push her down to the ground, face-up, her restrained hands trapped beneath her.

She had fought against him with everything that she had, but he was a man with the full use of his limbs, taller than Jack, and less leanly built.

Mercifully, they had both become aware of a car coming to a stop close by, followed by several voices engaging in a heated discussion of last week's footy match. She had somehow managed to free one of her hands, and she had taken the opportunity of his distraction to use what remained of her strength, and force him away from her, inflicting as much damage as possible with her remaining fingernails.

He had sworn loudly, and one of the arguing voices had asked if anyone else had heard something. He had managed to clap a hand over her mouth until the discussion resumed, and then, he had told her, in no uncertain terms, how it would play out if she breathed a word of what had happened to anyone.

He had left her there on the ground, in disarray and struggling to catch her breath, and he had disappeared down the darkness of the laneway, in the opposite direction to the voices. She had pulled herself against the wall, slightly tucked behind what felt like wooden crates, and waited. Who knew whether those men would help her, or finish the job that had been started? After what had seemed an interminable wait, during which two of the voices had come into the laneway to 'use the facilities', the idling motor had finally pulled away, and footsteps had faded away into the night.

She wasn't going to risk waiting another moment. There was no guarantee that he wouldn't return, or that he wouldn't return WITH his friend. She had gone out into the street, from the direction that they had first entered the laneway, and started off down the road, keeping out of the light wherever possible.

Most houses here were in darkness, but a light had flicked on in a hallway just as she was about to pass it, and she had decided to take her chances. She had rapped lightly, but rather desperately, at the door, but had had no response. Again… A shadow moved somewhere behind the glass, but still the door had not opened.

"Please… Do you have a telephone?... Please!" she had begged, and knocked again. Finally the door had opened a crack to reveal an elderly lady, in a worn nightgown and old-fashioned cap, holding a glass of milk. She had seemed more frightened upon seeing Phryne, and had started to close the door again. "Please! I just need to use your telephone… Please…" Finally, she had relented, and Phryne had telephoned the one person she trusted above all others.

She was looking at him now with that trust lighting her otherwise wretched eyes, and guilt surged through him. He had thought that she was up to her usual tricks when she had telephoned the station. What if Foster had answered and Jack had ignored her call as he had, on occasion, previously? What if he had refused her when she had told him she needed him to pick her up? What if he hadn't been at the station at all? He dreaded to think what she would have done…

His emotions were clearly written all over his face, and now SHE tried to give HIM some comfort.

"He didn't… It all happened so fast… and I was struggling so hard and… He didn't… GET what he wanted…"

Oh thank God. He drew in a deep, relieved breath, as she went on "It was just… It was such a shock… I never thought…" She looked at him pleadingly. "I feel so stupid… I don't want to cry… I don't want to be the victim… I'm supposed to be STRONG…" her voice became a whisper, "but I was so scared…" The tears started again, his hand went to her shoulder, and she launched herself at him, crying out at an unknown pain, but drawing herself into his arms regardless.

He had no idea what was the right thing to do. Most of the battered women that he encountered shied away from contact, but here she was, clinging to him like her life depended on it. Maybe, in some way, it did. If physical comfort was what she wanted, then he should give it to her; but he ought also to be prepared for her to change her mind at any moment.

He folded his arms gently around her, and rubbed softly between her shoulder blades.

Here was a woman who was better equipped to protect herself than most of his officers, and yet that had not been enough to keep her from harm. What must she be feeling now, realising that, in spite of her physical training, a pistol in her purse, and her mental resources, she had been defenceless against someone intent on doing her harm? His voice broke a little as he spoke against her hair. "You're allowed to be scared… Anyone would have been scared… You don't have to be strong all of the time… I'm so sorry…"

"He said that I was just getting what was coming to me… That I'm no lady… That I was asking for it… Maybe I was? If I didn't–"

"No!" He was putting a stop to that train of thought right there. "Don't you dare blame yourself for this… Don't you ever believe that someone had the right to do this to you, that it was your fault. It's not. You don't ever have to justify yourself to me, or to anyone else. Do you hear me? Never."

He brought a hand up to stroke her head, and the sparkling brooch that sat awkwardly there slid off into his hand as he touched it… along with a clump of her hair. His stomach turned, and he tossed it away from him, onto the floor; that was when he felt hot tears on his own cheeks.

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

_Previously: Safely at the Hotel Windsor with Jack, Phryne has just explained to him how a fairly recent acquaintance tried to rape her._

xoxox

Eventually he said "I know that this is probably the last thing that you feel like doing right now, but you ought to make a formal statement. The photographer–"

"No." She looked at him imploringly. "Jack, I can't make a statement. This can't go any further… You promised."

"Why? This bastard will rot in gaol for what he's done to you! I can't–"

"No, he won't. He was absolutely right when he told me it would do no good to report him."

He started to protest, but she cut him off. "If I do nothing, both of our lives will go on, and I can only hope that natural justice will catch up with him some day… But if I report this… He's an important man, from an influential family, with unlimited resources… He's widely liked, and has an unblemished reputation… Against me… A woman of inferior class and ambiguous morals, known for my unconventional lifestyle…"

"It makes NO difference, Phryne. What he did to you–"

"It DOES make a difference… As much as we all want to believe that anyone can get justice, it isn't true… And I'm sorry…" she tore her eyes away from his, "I know that I'M the one always campaigning for justice… That if this had happened to another woman, I would be the first to say that she ought to speak out… for herself, and other women… but it's… It's not just me I have to think about… My family – I would bring disgrace on them all… My parents… their reputation would never be recovered… Aunt P and Guy…"

"But surely your family would believe you?"

"Yes, perhaps… Probably… But at what cost?... Aunt P has lived her entire married life here… Where would she go if everyone she knew turned their backs on her? If the boards she sits on 'no longer required her services'? If the doctors who take care of Arthur started turning her away? Back to 'Old Blighty'? It would be just as bad… Worse… It's too late for her to start a new life."

She had a point, and he didn't like it at all.

"And Jane… She's just STARTING her life… He and I discussed her… He and Aunt Prudence probably discussed her… He knows about her, knows about her ambitions. He would see to it that she was turned away from any university within his reach. It's all she dreams about… and isn't that why I took her in? So that she could have a chance to live her dreams?" She looked him square in the eyes, and hers were full of fear and sorrow. "And he threatened–" She drew in a breath before it could turn into a sob. "He said I could never be there, with her, always… I could never keep her safe… He made it very clear, Jack… Very clear." She suddenly sounded so small. "It's best left…"

He didn't know what to say. A cold rage simmered in his belly. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The pig of a man was going to get away with it, and Phryne was going to let him. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He had promised her, and if he broke his promise and made a report, something even worse might happen. She might forgive him for anything else, but if something happened to Jane… he wouldn't be able to forgive himself either.

He bowed his head in defeat, before lifting her bloodied hand and placing the softest of kisses on the back of her fingers. He reached up and tucked a stray strand of black behind her ear, and pressed his lips to the crown of her head. "You know that I am never letting you out of my sight, ever again."

She chuckled painfully. "Don't worry, I don't think I'll be going anywhere for a while."

"So… what are we going to do with you? You really ought to go home. Mr Butler, Dot, Jane… they'll understand…"

"No. I can't tell them. I can't tell anyone… and I don't want them to see me like this, not tonight. Help me, Jack…" she pleaded, "You have to give me a cover story…"

He rubbed his face, and sighed. "I'll think of something… Not now, but I'll think of something… In the meantime… we need to get you cleaned up. You really ought to see a doctor…"

She shook her head. "…but I wouldn't mind a bath."

He had rummaged through the rooms as steaming water poured into the bath, and found towels and a fluffy white robe. He pondered the various salts and oils that were meant for the tub, and finally poured in a liberal dose of each. The smell was divine; perhaps it would calm her a little more before sleep. Another brandy probably wouldn't go astray either.

She rose from the sofa with difficulty, and he realised then that he probably ought to have taken off her shoes whilst she was sitting. She leaned against the table as he undid the buckles, and then he helped her to remove her coat. The rage returned as he saw the terrible welts that marked her wrists, and the bruises that had formed on her arms.

She removed her earrings and a necklace, but a ring remained stubbornly on her swollen finger, and she looked as if she might cry again. She stood hesitantly before him for a moment, then looked at him, her expression open. "I'm going to need some help…" She made a broad movement encompassing the remainder of her clothing. Oh.

He followed her into the bathroom, where she attempted, unsuccessfully, to undo the tiny hooks of her dress. Her battered, shaking fingers were simply not up to the task, and he realised that he really was going to have to help her. Hooks undone, he tried to work out how best to get it off her without doing further damage.

"Don't worry about the dress… I'll never wear it again…" His jaw clenched at the expression on her face, and she closed her eyes and tried to lift her arms so that he could lift it over her head. She was clearly in pain at the movement, and as per her instruction he paid little heed to the dress in attempting to remove it in the fastest possible time.

She had a silk slip and torn knickers on underneath, a shiny girdle and her ruined stockings. She put her hands down to her button garters, but again her fingers betrayed her. "Please…" She closed her eyes and waited as he slid the hooks that were still attached off their buttons, and pulled her stockings down to her ankles, wincing as he peeled them off the dried grazes on her legs.

She stepped out of them, and turned away from him, and he realised that she was waiting for him to slide off the slip. As he gripped the hem, once again she lifted her arms as best she could, groaning in protest at the pain.

"I'm going to need your help to get in, so…" she hooked the waistband of her knickers away from her body, and shimmied out of them, before turning to face him.

She was standing naked, only inches in front of him, and it was the most un-erotic moment he could imagine. Again, he felt sick to his stomach as he catalogued the many bruises that marked her body, the deep finger imprints above her left knee, and the scratches on her upper thigh that could only have been made by fingernails.

He felt as if he were looking at a beautiful butterfly that lay broken on the ground. He made a pained noise that he could not possibly have described later, and she gave him a small, sad nod in return, before reaching out for his shoulder.

"Here." For the second time tonight he swept her into his arms, and deposited her gently into the warm water. She sucked in several breaths as the salty water reached various cuts, and he cursed himself, but she read his mind, and gave him a reassuring smile. "Thank you… It really won't make it any worse… and I'm sure my aching muscles will be grateful."

As she soaked he retrieved her another brandy, and used the room's telephone to consult with Mr Wentworth on obtaining some ointment, which was then sent up with alarming speed. Returning to the bathroom, he had a sudden thought. "Would you like me to wash your hair?"

She looked at him gratefully. "I thought you'd never ask…"

She hummed with pleasure as he sat on the edge, behind her curved back, and massaged shampoo through her gritty hair, carefully avoiding the small bald patch that would no doubt be very tender. It occurred to him that this might be the most intimate moment of his adult life; there was nothing arousing about the experience, but he felt closer to her than he could remember feeling to another human being.

He had never done this for Rosie; she'd had a tendency to squeak and chide him if he even walked into the bathroom whilst she was in the tub. Even when he was injured, or just bone-tired, no-one had washed his hair for him since he was a child, and he could not remember the sensation specifically, but seeing the relaxing effect it was having on Phryne, he now supposed that it might be rather nice.

It startled him a little, but it was also reassuring. He had always found his attraction to Phryne slightly terrifying. This was not the time or the place, but she was a very beautiful and alluring woman, and he would be lying if he said that he didn't want her, just like every other man who crossed her path. At the same time, he couldn't actually imagine being with her; he could admit to himself that he really knew nothing of the sensual arts – surely he could never be her lover? And perhaps, beyond the haze of his physical attraction to her, theirs was a firm friendship, and nothing more?

If tonight had shown him anything, it was that he was now quite sure that it was so much more. Yes, he wanted their mysteries, and their whiskeys, and their lively banter. Yes, he desired her touch, her lips on his, and her perfume on his skin. But he also craved this simple intimacy; how nice it would be, at the end of a hard and terrible day, to feel her fingers on his scalp, as he poured his heart out to a sympathetic and loving ear.

Yes. There was no undoing this revelation, but for now it was something to be put in a box and pushed into a corner. He had no idea what effect tonight's events would have on her in the long-term; or even over the coming days and weeks. She would probably need him to simply be here for her; the only person who would know what she had been through. In the cold light of day she might push him away entirely. Only time would tell…

He retrieved the towels that he had placed in front of the fire, and dried her hair as best he could, before she rose, with care, and he lifted her cleanly onto the floor. She stood before him, as naïve as a child, as he wrapped another warm towel around her, dried her purpling, swollen face, and rubbed at her arms, her torso, her legs. Despite the warmth she was shivering; her residual fear and exhaustion were taking their toll.

With the greater proportion of the healing ointment now covering every mark he had found on her body, and wrapped in the fluffy robe, he tucked her into the huge bed, a pile of downy pillows around her. He made to leave the room, and she called out after him, her voice heavy with her need for sleep, but a little panicked nonetheless, "Where are you going?"

"I'm not going anywhere… I'll be right back… I promise."

Having used the bathroom, removed his shoes, and turned out the lights, he returned and climbed on top of the covers beside her.

She looked up at him with huge, sleepy eyes. "Thank you, Jack…"

He bent and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "I'll be right here…" He turned off the lamp, and her hand snaked across and found his. In a matter of moments her fingers relaxed in his, her breathing slowed, and he followed her into sleep.

He woke early, but despite a pressing need, he dared not move until she stirred – he couldn't bear to have her wake alone. When she did, she appeared so much worse, but also so much better; every bruise and scrape was now as fully formed as it was going to get, and she looked as if she had gone the distance with a champion boxer, but the swelling in her face had gone down a little, and colour had returned to her complexion.

He ordered her a large breakfast that could be eaten, if a little slowly, without too much pain – porridge, eggs, tomato, kedgeree – and tucked into a hearty serve himself; minus the porridge, and plus toast and bacon. As they ate, and as he assisted her through another muscle-soothing soak, they talked over the details of his plan. The story would be as close to truth as possible, up to a certain point.

She was walking when she had been confronted by several men who wanted to rob her. As attending the charity dinner had been her only plan for that night, she had not had her pistol or her dagger on her, and despite her best efforts they had managed to overpower her. She should not have continued to fight, but she'd had a little too much to drink, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time, so they had bound her hands in order to search her thoroughly. They had taken all of the jewellery she was wearing, the contents of her purse, her silver cigarette case, and her fur coat. They had left her in the laneway, from where she had made her way to a stranger's door, and telephoned Jack.

Jack had collected her, and being a friend, had thought it best that she make her complaint at Russell Street, rather than City South (and if anyone ever queried the lack of report, he would blame the poor records-keeping at the police headquarters). By the time they were finished it was the early hours of the morning, and exhausted, and not wanting to frighten her household with her terrible appearance at that time, she had asked Jack to take her to the Windsor.

Jack was not due back on duty until the evening, so they would have plenty of time today. He would take her pistol, fur, jewellery and cigarette case back to his own lodgings; at some later stage she would sell the fur, probably for a fraction of its cost, to someone who had no idea of its value, but would treasure it nonetheless. Her monogrammed cigarette case, ring (which was now able to be removed), necklace and earrings she would take to a jeweller whom she did not usually frequent; there she would ensure that the precious metals were melted down, and the stones either sold on or re-used.

The contents of her purse Jack would use to pay the bill, and the remainder he would take with him, to be returned to her, along with her pistol, the next time he saw her. He would smuggle her back down the service stairs and take her home, where they would have to convincingly tell this story, and everyone would be suitably horrified by what had taken place.

The car was a problem; he should not still have it at this hour, when he was not on duty. However, once word filtered around City South about what had (supposedly) happened to Miss Fisher, he doubted anyone would make complaint about his few hours' personal use of one of the station's most precious resources. 

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

_Previously: Jack found Phryne in a terrible state, and she revealed to him that an attempt had been made to rape her. However, she made him promise not to reveal what happened, and the following morning they came up with a cover story to explain her injuries to her nearest and dearest._

xoxox

The plan had worked to perfection.

Word had spread, and Melbourne society was outraged at the attack; no doubt 'the Honourable' was feeling rather smug.

Her friends and family had been shocked, dismayed, and angry – and thankful that no further crime had been perpetrated upon her by the thieves. They grumbled about the lack of justice, but she just resignedly shook her head and pointed out that it had been so dark, she had been drinking, there was no way that she could possibly identify the men again. Bert and Cec had offered to stake out the area where it had happened, but she discouraged them, saying she believed it had simply been a crime of opportunity. They all hoped that one of her personal items might be identified somewhere, providing a lead, and she nodded and knew that there was no way that they ever would.

They were sat together on the chaise, slightly apart, consuming tea and some of Dot's excellent biscuits. A cheeky grin lit her face as she animatedly recounted something to him, and Jack marvelled at her resilience. The bruises of those eighteen days prior were gone, a pinkish mark across her cheek the only visible remnant of her experience. The wounds within would take longer to heal, but he was the only one who knew how deep they really were. She presented such a brave face to the rest of the world; it was a horrible thing that had happened, but she had probably been a little silly, there was nothing she could do about it now, and life must move on.

She had confided in Jack that The-Honourable-&-Co were boarding their ship for home next week, and then she felt that she could put all of this behind her.

He only hoped that eventually she could; in the days after it had been heart-wrenching to see the vibrant, sparkling creature reduced to a battered shell of her usual self. She still had a tendency to jump at unexpected times, but she had pulled herself together and was determined to re-enter the world, head held high.

"You look tired, Jack…"

He nodded his agreement. Yes; he had not had much sleep of late…

She was about to say something further, when the bell rang, and Mr Butler admitted a rather flustered Mrs Stanley, who waved off his offer of tea, as she hastily took a seat.

"Well! You're not going to BELIEVE what has happened!"

She looked at the two of them expectantly, but continued on before either could prompt her to do so.

"I'm in a terrible hurry, but I had to come and pass on this AWFUL news! I've JUST come from luncheon with Adele Freeman. SHE heard from Lady Archdale that the Honourable Mr Gordon-Benton has been attacked! ATTACKED!"

She looked to her niece for validation of her outrage. Phryne looked startled, and then her brows furrowed, and Jack felt her gaze travel to his face. He asked, "Are you aware of what happened, Mrs Stanley?"

"Well, apparently the circumstances were rather similar to what happened to Phryne! He was set upon, SET UPON in the street, by SEVERAL men," Jack's jaw twitched "who robbed him of his valuables! What sort of an impression are we making when an ESTEEMED VISITOR to our country has been VICIOUSLY ASSAULTED whilst taking his nightly walk? And THEN there's what happened to Phryne! It's OUTRAGEOUS, Inspector, when we GOOD CITIZENS of Melbourne are being TARGETED by these GANGS OF HOOLIGANS… IN OUR OWN SUBURBS! What are you going to do about it?" she demanded, as if he were, in fact, the Chief Commissioner.

Jack nodded gravely, and felt Phryne's intense scrutiny upon his face. "Of course, I understand your concern, Mrs Stanley, and I can assure you that the Victorian Constabulary takes these matters very seriously. Unfortunately, in your niece's case, it seems that there is no way to identify the culprits… Has Mr Gordon-Benton made a report?"

"APPARENTLY, he has decided against it! He couldn't identify the men, and the items that were taken were of mainly sentimental value... Other than that, I understand that his injuries are quite severe, but not life-threatening. All the same, he probably ought not be travelling in his condition, but he maintains that he WILL be leaving as planned! I suppose that he will use the time at sea to recover… but broken noses rarely heal well!"

"What a shame…" Phryne spoke for the first time.

"Yes… Yes, he was a rather handsome gentleman… I don't suppose that he will return here… NOT that he seemed to have had much encouragement from anyone I know…" she looked pointedly at her niece, and Phryne smoothed her hands down her skirt, but did not answer.

The silence stretched for a moment before Mrs Stanley's expression softened. "Well, you never know what opportunities await you…" At that she stood, made her excuses, as she was going to be late for a board meeting, and left them alone.

"Jack…"

He looked at her, his expression neutral, but open, and she searched his eyes for a long moment, before speaking. "What a terrible thing to happen to the Honourable Mr Gordon-Benton…" The irony in her voice made him smile, at least as far as his eyes, so he looked away from her.

"Yes… Yes, terrible… But, surely, having heard what happened to you, and so recently, he might have thought better of a late night stroll, alone?... If that is what really happened, of course."

"Of course… pure speculation, at best…"

"Mm." He looked back at her, and her eyes were huge, and shining with so much emotion that his throat tightened.

He had overstepped the boundaries of his own morals, and the law – and he didn't regret it for a moment.

Armed with as many women's magazines and society pages as he could muster from the previous few weeks, it had not been hard to identify the man of whom Phryne had spoken. His shifts re-arranged to accommodate, long nights in the shadows had confirmed that, no matter what his night's activities, the man was fond of a stroll around the block before bed.

His dinner suit, a luxurious and, no doubt, ridiculously expensive cashmere scarf that Phryne had given him, and a new pair of the shiniest patent dress shoes his money could buy, had capped off Jack's plan for Mr Gordon-Benton. Taken by surprise, in the darkness, by someone he never suspected of ill-intent? That didn't sound familiar at all… They had invented several men to explain the severity of Phryne's injuries, given that she was 'only robbed'. Jack gave an internal smirk; Gordon-Benton was a snivelling coward who would never admit to having been bested by a lone man of smaller stature.

Other than physical size, the upper hand had been fairly and squarely with Jack; thanks to the society pages he had been armed with a veritable fount of information about the man, his family, associates, hobbies, and ambitions, whilst he himself remained an unknown entity to his adversary. Given the 'conversation' that the two gentlemen had had, and the threats imparted, Jack was as certain as he could be that there would be no retribution forthcoming in Phryne's direction, ever… although he expected that the man might think again about accepting a well-dressed stranger's request for a cigarette… He certainly wouldn't be capable of making any 'advances' to any women for some time to come… And if the only consequence of Jack's actions was that Melbourne's well-heeled went out in pairs in the immediate future, so be it…

Phryne was speaking. "Perhaps, like me, he might find that every cloud has a silver lining…"

"Oh?" He looked at her quizzically. "What's that?"

She reached for his hand, and twined her fingers through his. "This." Her gaze returned to his, and his affectionate smile mirrored the relief and love that he saw on her face.

That had been a couple of weeks ago now. Mr Gordon-Benton was probably somewhere in the wide open ocean, and although Jack would never make light of a tragedy, and would never wish harm on the innocent, he wondered vaguely how far south icebergs tended to drift…

For the most part, Phryne was back to her old self, save perhaps that any late-night forays might not be made alone for a little time to come. He was in no doubt, though, that eventually he would be left to worry about her once again – she was, after all, of the bucking-up-and-getting-on-with-it type. And as much concern as he might have for her, he didn't want to see her independent spirit crushed by an incident that she could not have prevented, as much as she told herself that she was partly to blame.

He gave himself a mental shake. Why was he thinking about this now, when she was so deliciously close? Her expression told him that she had much more pleasant things on her mind. His drifted lazily back to that night last week… Ever since 'the incident' his departures from her door had been marked by hugs, which had become increasingly full-bodied as time went on. Then, the kisses to the cheek had started. It hadn't escaped his notice that Mr Butler no longer appeared to help him into his coat.

Then, last Tuesday, she had hugged him, kissed his cheek very close to the corner of his mouth… and had not stepped away. As he looked down at her, wonderingly, she leaned her tilted head up and affectionately touched the tip of her nose to his. A moment later, his forehead touched hers, and he suddenly found that his right hand was at the side of her face, his fingers in her hair. He breathed out slowly, closed his eyes, and felt her lips brush his in the lightest of touches.

He waited, eyes still closed; everything was up to her, and how far she wanted to take it. Her lips touched his again, this time for a little longer, and with a little more pressure, before he felt her pull gently away. "Goodnight, Jack…"

At her gentle insistence, he had seen her every day since, and he wasn't exactly complaining. Aside from the fact that he delighted in her company, with each meeting the kisses, and their associated embraces, had become more heated, and more frequent.

She jolted him out of his reverie with a brush of her fingers to his abdomen, and sparkling eyes. "What are you thinking?"

"Well, Miss Fisher…" He snaked an arm around her waist. "I was just thinking… that it's almost a crime… that you haven't kissed me for a good…" he made a show of checking his watch, "seventeen minutes."

"Seventeen minutes?" Her immaculate brows rose in mock surprise. "I'm quite sure that IS a crime, Inspector… One for which I will gladly accept any punishment you see fit…"

He pretended to consider for a moment. "Hmmmm…" His lips quirked into a smile. "Perhaps you should kiss me. I have an ex-wife who will testify that THAT is a punishment worth avoiding at all cost."

"Jack!" She thumped him good-naturedly and laughed with him, before adopting an expression of faux resignation. "Well, I expect I ought to accept my punishment with good grace…" and she stepped into him to do just that.

When they were both quite breathless, she looked up at him. "If you wanted to dole out some more serious punishment tonight… I am… both willing, and able, to accept it…" Her fingers had made their way beneath his waistcoat, and his pulse quickened at both her gentle touch, and the look in her eyes. Her intent was as clear as the crystal in her sideboard, and it both excited and frightened him; but then he gave an internal eye-roll.

Frightening was being handcuffed and set upon by a man who wanted to rape you; here he was with what was little more than performance anxiety. She had trusted him, and he had done his best to care for her, and she was going to be fine. HE trusted HER, and he had no doubt that she would care for him, and HE would be fine. He took a deep breath.

"I love you."

A beautiful smile lit up her face, and she practically glowed as she looked up at him. Her expression said 'You do? What a relief! I can't tell you how happy that makes me…', and he was sure his said the same, when the actual words that came out of her mouth were "I love you too…"

He followed her, admiring every movement she made, his fingers twined in hers, and he chuckled to himself; with a view like this, any time she felt like going back to the Windsor, he would gladly walk behind her up those twelve turns of the service staircase.

Her bedroom was warm, the fire already lit and burning slowly, two bedside nymphs illuminating their surroundings. She showed him the fastenings of her dress, and this time he was the one with trembling fingers; no lifting required, though, as it slid down and pooled at her stockinged feet. Her garters she unhooked herself, and then her girdle, which she dropped inelegantly to the floor. She waited as his hands met her loose stocking-tops, sliding the silk downwards until it fell to her ankles, where she hooked her toes in and stepped out of each in turn.

Her hands rested on his arms as his fingers dipped beneath her slip and found the skin of her stomach and waist. When he went no further, she became impatient, and pulled the slip over her head with a grin. His thumbs stroked slowly over her warm flesh, and her knickers followed the path of their companion.

Having seen her naked before, he was surprised at how he felt as though he hadn't. She really was a thing of beauty, and she put those two nymphs in their pools of light to shame. She stepped into him, allowing his hands to explore more of her small form – her shoulder blades, the hollows of her spine, her smoothe, rounded buttocks and hips, and the curves at the sides of her breasts.

He caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror, and he found the contrast strangely pleasing – he still fully dressed and well-groomed, she without a stitch, her hair a little wild. Her arms were around his back, the balls of her small feet on the tops of his shoes, her calves taut as she stretched up to kiss the side of his face. His pleasure in the scene was suddenly overtaken by an urgent need to be as naked as she was.

If anyone had dared to ask him later, he could not say exactly how, and in what order, his clothing had been discarded; only that his wish had been granted with some speed, and he soon found his arms around her once again, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her neck and shoulder, as her hands explored his lean back, firm buttocks, and well-muscled legs.

She pulled him with her to the bed, and down to lie beside her, her hands immediately resuming their exploration, but this time of his chest and abdomen; his hardness pressed against her soft belly.

Her hands journeyed up, and over his shoulders, and she pulled herself up, her head level with his. Her intent in doing so was apparent the moment her leg slid over his hip, and he gasped as his tip met her wet heat, and she pressed down gently so that he was just inside her. He groaned into her hair as she wriggled and he found half his length had been encompassed within her soft, tight walls.

They exchanged several long kisses before her fingers grasped his buttock, urging him over her, her hips opened to him, and he slid fully into her as she moaned into his neck.

He had thought it might be over before he could he could control himself, but looking down into her trusting face, and remembering that, not too long ago, someone had tried to take this from her by force, it was enough. He moved slowly with her as he kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, and told her that he loved her, that she was precious to him, that he would do anything for her; they both knew how true that was.

Her grip on him slowly tightened, her breath became an urgent pant, and he bent to kiss her throat when she tilted her head back, her eyes clamped closed. Suddenly one of her hands snaked around his head, and she pulled herself up to him. "Jack!"

She contracted hard around him, and she cried out against his mouth; finally he let himself go, and with a few last desperate thrusts, followed her into oblivion.

xoxox

Having been called out at 3am, it had been a long day; in fact, he'd had a hellishly long week. He had returned mid-afternoon, and finding the house apparently empty, he had stuffed several biscuits into his mouth in quick succession, taken a sneaky gulp of milk straight from the bottle, and headed upstairs to shed his suit, which was filthy, following the pursuit of a suspect.

Phryne had found him examining one, now threadbare, knee of his trousers, and promptly prodded him into a steaming bath, leaving him to soak his aching muscles. She had returned with tea and a plate piled high with bread and beef dripping, which had been consumed with gratitude, and probably undue haste.

Now, she was in the tub behind him, her knees cushioned by a folded cloth of some sort, her belly and thighs flat against his back and shoulder blades. She was lathering his hair with shampoo, and her laugh reverberated through him as he described the suspect's ridiculous attempts to evade City South's finest.

He inhaled deeply, and groaned with pleasure as her small fingers massaged delicious circles into his scalp.

His relationship with her deepened by the day, and in turns amazed him, frightened him, challenged him, and surprised him. There was no denying that the sex was… incredible. But this?

This was pure bliss…

xox The End xox


End file.
